Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  At least he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder, afraid the police were breathing down his neck; they were so far off the scent that he was almost tempted to start leaving them clues, just to make it more interesting.

  Tomorrow night was going to be extremely challenging, but he had been thorough in his research and he knew his intended prey’s routines inside out. He would require a little luck to pull this off, but he was confident he would have it; he could feel the power he’d attained from completing the first ritual cruising through his veins, and he knew it was already influencing destiny in his favour.

  If there was a glitch – if, for some reason, he was unable to snatch the first one within the time frame he had allotted – he would just have to be pragmatic about it and move onto his second target. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, although he had to admit that on a personal level it would really piss him off. The goading message he’d left at the first murder scene had been a clear statement of intent, letting the world know that greater things were to follow. Now he needed to back up his boast with a grand gesture. If he achieved success tomorrow, no one would ever be able to say that he had failed to live up to the promised hype.

  ◆◆◆

  Tyler made his way along the deserted westbound platform. About a third of the way down, he came to a door that said: STAFF ONLY – STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE. He turned the handle carefully, praying it wasn’t locked. The door swung inwards on well-oiled hinges revealing an unlit corridor that ran between the platforms.

  Closing the door behind him, Jack crept along the dark passageway, which contained several storerooms and an assortment of industrial cleaning equipment, toward a distant shimmer of light, which he assumed was leaking in through the door to the eastbound platform. He moved as silently as he could, hugging the wall. After a while, he began to hear voices. Muffled at first, they gradually became clearer as he approached the eastbound platform. He noticed the platform door had been wedged open, which explained the sliver of light.

  A sudden movement at ground level caught Jack’s eye. Glancing down, he saw an enormous rat by the side of his foot. Jack drew in a sharp breath as the furry creature scuttled across his shoe and, seemingly unconcerned by Jack’s presence, continued onwards without a backward glance.

  As he stepped onto the eastbound platform Jack spotted Winston off to his right, no more than ten feet away. He had his back to Tyler and was pointing a gun at Dillon, who stood facing him, with both hands raised in the air. As Tyler assessed the situation Winston erupted into a screaming fit, recklessly waving the gun in the air.

  And then the ranting was over and had Winston reached what hostage negotiators called the ‘endgame moment’. Knowing that his partner had seconds to live, Tyler took a deep breath to oxygenate his blood, lowered his head, and charged.

  Everything became a blur from that point onwards. In the instant that Tyler’s body slammed into Winston, the gun went off, sounding incredibly loud. A grey cloud of smoke and cordite swirled around them as they clashed, its pungent odour stinging the back of Jack’s throat. His ears were ringing painfully, distorting the sound of the struggle.

  As his momentum carried them towards the tracks, Tyler wrapped his left arm around Winston’s neck, clamping his forearm tight across the big man’s windpipe and carotid artery. Jack’s other hand grabbed Winston’s gun hand, jarring it upward and outwards.

  Powerful images flashed through Tyler’s mind: Colin Franklin, last seen lying motionless in an east London street, a coffin, a Service funeral, Franklin’s heavily pregnant wife being comforted by grieving family and friends, their unborn child growing up without a father. He saw Winston’s smug face laughing at them from behind bars, mocking everything that young Franklin had stood for.

  The images continued: Tracey Phillips lying on a cold mortuary slab, gutted like a fish; her family – he had found out earlier in the day that she had a young child of her own – struggling to cope. A pauper’s grave with a little girl standing beside it, a handful of wild flowers, freshly picked, in her hand.

  Lastly, he thought about Tony Dillon, realising that he didn’t know if his friend had been hit or not. Tyler felt the images stoking his anger, and to his surprise, he realised that he really wanted to hurt Claude Winston.

  Winston needed no such stimuli to summon aggression. He instinctively fought like a man berserk, thrashing and bucking with all his might as he tried to pull free and turn the gun on Tyler. Jack was lifted clear off his feet and swung around one hundred and eighty degrees, but he refused to let go. He knew that he was slowly strangling Winston, and he was determined not to stop until the mad bastard was down for good.

  The struggle continued across the breadth of the platform. By now Winston was noticeably fighting for his every breath. He could feel his strength slipping away. As his vision became tunnelled he made a last-ditch effort and thrust himself backwards, smashing into the platform wall with all his considerable weight. He felt a satisfying thud as a surprised gasp came from behind, signalling that Tyler had been winded by the impact. Suddenly, the grip around his neck loosened and, sensing that the tables might just have been turned, he redoubled his efforts to dislodge his attacker.

  Jack was dazed by the blow, but he was far from finished. If only he could knock the gun from Winston’s hand, he would be free to move. Jack had been a good boxer in his younger days and he was confident that he could take Winston in a fair fight.

  And then it didn’t matter anymore. Dillon suddenly appeared in front of Winston, a fearsome battle rage contorting the normally calm features of his broad face. A shovel-like hand gripped Winston’s wrist and squeezed until the man yelled in agony and released the gun. It fell to the floor and bounced down into the track below. Dillon’s right hand exploded into Winston’s fat stomach. The force of the blow was powerful enough to knock Jack – who was still holding on from behind – backwards. As Winston sank to his knees, his face ashen, Dillon delivered a forearm smash into the bridge of the drug dealer’s nose. The snap of breaking bone was almost as loud as the gunshot had been on the empty platform. A sea of crimson erupted from the black man’s battered face as he tumbled backward, unconscious.

  Dillon studied Tyler, who was bending forward; hands on his knees, his breathing laboured.

  “You took your bloody time. I thought you’d been shot,” Tyler complained in between breaths.

  “I thought you had him Jack, so I went to check on the lad.”

  “Lad? What lad?”

  Dillon nodded towards the Transport cop on the floor.

  “Oh God, not another one,” Jack said, his face palling. “I didn’t even see him.” He rushed over to the injured officer, wondering if this was his fault too. “Hang on in there, mate. You’re going to be okay,” Tyler told him, not sure how true that was. Christ, Jack thought, he doesn’t look old enough to shave yet.

  The officer nodded weakly, in too much pain to talk.

  Carefully removing the Constable’s handcuffs, Jack ran back to join Dillon with their prisoner. “Help me turn this bastard over,” he said.

  Dillon looked around carefully. “Do you think there are cameras operating down here, Jack?” he asked.

  Jack saw the malevolence in his friend’s eyes. “Of course there are, so don’t do anything silly. He’s not worth it.”

  “So help me, I’m tempted to throw him onto the line and watch him fry,” Dillon admitted, his voice thick with menace. He reached down with one hand and took hold of Winston’s left arm. Then he grabbed the thick, beaded dreadlocks with the other hand, twisting them tightly to ensure a firm grip. Flexing his massive arms, Dillon unceremoniously hoisted the prisoner up in a deadlift. Using the motion to flip Winston over so that he faced the floor, Dillon let go of him. Winston fell forward like a stone, his chin striking the concrete with a heavy thud.

  “That’s for Colin Franklin, you bastard,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Dillon realised that several huge lump
s of Winston’s hair had come away in his hand. With a grimace, he cast them into the track and began to brush his hands.

  “What did I just fucking say to you?” Jack snarled.

  “It was an accident. He slipped.”

  “This isn’t the bad old days, Dill. No one cares how good your motives are anymore. In the current climate if you put a foot out of line the brass won’t think twice about putting you up before a discipline board.”

  “Does that include you?”

  Tyler was shocked. “Of course not,” he said defensively.

  “It was an accident,” Dillon repeated.

  Tyler nodded; left it at that.

  After searching Winston for additional weapons, they cuffed him and placed him in the recovery position, then returned to the injured Transport cop. They found a bandage in the first aid kit on his utility belt and tried to stem the bleeding with it. As Jack stood up to go and summon help, he heard the unmistakable sound of men in combat boots running. Moments later a host of heavily armed SO19 officers, toting an arsenal of MP5 machine guns and Glock pistols, burst onto the platform, fanning out as they went.

  “Armed police! Nobody move!” Their leader shouted, as enough hardware to start a small war was levelled at Jack and Dillon.

  ◆◆◆

  As they left the platform, now clustered with emergency personnel, Steve Bull appeared at their side, his slender face fraught with worry. He handed them each a polystyrene cup containing coffee, which he’d purloined from a shop in the concourse.

  “Any news on Colin, yet?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing,” Bull said, miserably.

  There was a sudden flurry of activity behind them, on the platform where the BTP officer – they’d learned his name was Jenkins – lay. He had been there for over twenty minutes now, while the trauma team stabilised him. The area was off limits to non-essential personnel, which Tyler and Dillon were both now considered. Finally, something was happening.

  They watched in strained silence as the ambulance crew carefully removed the injured transport cop from the platform. The Helicopter Emergency Medical Service doctor in attendance was a gunshot trauma specialist. He fastidiously supervised the paramedics as they held the various tubes and bottles in place during the difficult trip up the escalator.

  Another ambulance crew had already removed Winston from the scene, with a strong police guard in attendance. He was still unconscious. The doctor had given him a brief examination, concluding that his nose, jaw and right cheekbones were all badly fractured. “He might not win any beauty contests for a while, but he should make a full recovery,” he had informed them in a matter of fact tone.

  “Pity,” Dillon had responded, spitting the word out like venom.

  A BTP Inspector, accompanying the injured officer, veered off from the stretcher party and approached them. “Chief Inspector Tyler?” he enquired in a strong Mancunian accent, his eyes flitting nervously from one to the other.

  Jack acknowledged the man with a nod, his mind elsewhere. He desperately needed to get back above ground level, to find out how Franklin was doing. He had just finished handing the scene over to BTP CID; the necessary delay had been as agonising to him as any torture an inquisitor could have devised. Surely someone knew something by now, and if so, why hadn’t they got word to Tyler?

  “That’s me. This is DI Dillon.”

  “I’m Inspector Dalton, BTP. I just wanted to thank you for looking after Constable Jenkins. He’s been shot twice, but thankfully both bullets seem to have missed his vitals. The doctor thinks one’s still lodged in the shoulder, though, because there’s no exit wound for it.” The BTP Inspector seemed at a loss as to what else to say and the silence quickly became strained. “Just thought you’d want to know,” he finally said. Dalton was clearly shaken by the senseless wounding of one of his men.

  Tyler knew exactly how he felt. Welcome to the club, old son. Jack kept the thought to himself.

  The Inspector shook their hands formally, thanking them once again. With a final nod of the head, he rushed off to re-join the paramedics, who were now halfway up the escalator, intent on supervising Jenkins’ removal to hospital.

  Jack took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face. “I think I need something a little bit stronger,” he remarked wearily.

  “Yeah, me too,” Dillon said, taking the unwanted cup from him.

  “Come on. Let’s get back to work,” Tyler sighed.

  According to the electronic clock mounted on the station wall, its red digits glowing brightly against a black background, the time was now 23:00hrs.

  It had been one of the longest, most stressful days Jack could ever remember working, and it was far from over.

  CHAPTER 15

  Emerging from the main entrance, Tyler spotted Steve Bull down by their car. He nudged Dillon’s arm, pointed, and rushed down the steps, cutting through a string of uniforms surging the other way.

  Winston’s BMW had been cordoned off, and a City officer was standing guard. The road outside the station, already narrowed by roadworks, had been rendered completely impassable by abandoned police vehicles and ambulances. The glass-fronted buildings surrounding the station reflected the sea of pulsating blue light brilliantly.

  Bull had his back towards them, and he was talking on the car radio.

  “Is there any news on Colin Franklin yet?” Tyler asked as they reached the car.

  “I’ve just spoken directly to the Yard.” Bull’s face was unreadable, but the strain in his voice was immediately evident.

  “And?” Tony Dillon demanded, anxiously.

  Steve Bull shook his head in misery. “Colin was still alive when the LAS took him off to the Royal London, but the CAD’s not been updated on his condition since.”

  “Damn,” Jack said. Not knowing Colin’s fate was tearing him apart and, as cruel as it sounded, he would have almost preferred bad news to this.

  “That might be a good sign,” Bull said, hopefully.

  Jack’s face softened. “We can only hope,” he said. “Are you okay? I know you and Colin were close.”

  “I’m fine,” Bull lied.

  Tyler nodded his understanding. “It’s alright, Stevie,” he said, placing a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get over there on the hurry up. We can write this crap up later.”

  ◆◆◆

  The Royal London Hospital is an austere building situated in the centre of Whitechapel High Street. Originally built in 1759, it was once the sanctuary of Joseph Carey Merrick, more commonly known by his cruel nom de guerre: the ‘elephant man’.

  While its grim Victorian facade hadn’t changed much since Merrick’s time, the hospital now boasted the Helicopter Emergency Medical Service and an impressive array of specialist consultants and advanced technical facilities; it had an Intensive Care Unit second to none.

  As Tyler passed through the main entrance, he spotted Kelly Flowers and George Copeland standing beside a drinks dispenser opposite the reception desk. Copeland was jabbing the selector buttons aggressively.

  For a second, Tyler faltered. This was the moment of truth. What on earth would he say to them if Colin had died? Dillon noted the slight hesitation in Jack’s step but said nothing. He knew how badly his friend was taking this.

  The detectives quickly crossed the hall to join their comrades, with Tyler taking the lead. Kelly Flowers was the first to notice their approach. A wave of relief swept over her pretty features as she nudged George and pointed in their direction. “Thank God you’re safe,” she said as Jack reached them. “We’ve all been so worried.”

  Kelly took a step towards Jack, instinctively reaching out to touch his arm, but then she stopped short, afraid he would think she was being too familiar. She needn’t have worried. Jack wrapped his arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave her a big hug. Kelly blushed, but Tyler was too preoccupied to notice. “How’s Colin?” He asked, feeling his stomach constrict into a ball of ice. “Is he going to…I
mean…How bad is it?”

  “He’s going to be fine,” George said, not taking his eyes from the drink dispenser. “I’ll take you to see him as soon as I get my money back from this thieving bastard machine.” With that, he began rocking it.

  “Why don’t I take you through,” Kelly offered quickly, conscious that the stern-faced lady sitting behind the reception counter was staring at Copeland disapprovingly. “George can join us after, assuming he doesn’t get himself thrown out first.” Without waiting for an answer, she set off along a white-walled corridor that led to the Accident and Emergency department. The triage area was packed with the walking wounded, some waiting patiently, others complaining about the long wait they had endured. The smell of Trigene was overwhelming, and it reminded Dillon of his recent trip to the mortuary.